Valentine Pains
by Iona Nineve
Summary: Jo and Henry find Valentine's day harder to deal with than expected, and each find comfort. Rated T for mild language.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Forever or any of its characters.**

**Author's Note: This kinda ran away with itself, and is much longer than I had originally planned. Hope you enjoy and feel free to comment.**

Valentine Pains

Jo Martinez entered the morgue, carrying two cups of coffee, where two ironic bodies were attended by the lovably eccentric ME.

"Morning, Henry."

"Good morning, Detective." He greeted, rather morosely when compared to his normal cheery manner.

"How are Romeo and Juliet coming?" She asked in reference to the bodies; the man with no exterior mark to describe cause of death, the woman with the gaping hole left by a kitchen knife.

"I just finished the autopsies. The man died of poisoning with arsenic."

"And besides all that, you're going to say they were murdered."

"Actually, indeed they were."

Not particularly surprised but rather end annoyed, she exclaimed. "O, come on Henry. They've got to be suicides, I mean look at them. It's the end of Romeo and Juliet."

"The moniker given them are apt for their causes of death, however they fall short when the manners of death are considered." He said, his voice still exhibiting less than his usual unrevealing control. "The poison in his system suggested that he'd been poisoned over a long period of time by someone who had access to his food. Likely one morning he realized the meaning of his symptoms and prompted by anger and the adrenaline that comes before death he took up the nearest weapon, a kitchen knife, and stabbed his murderous wife."

"Only on Valentine's day." She said, taking a long drink from her coffee and offering the cup of tea to him.

He accepted the warm paper cup, decorated laboriously for the holiday. "It's such a wretched holiday." He mumbled as he inspected the pattern of pink and red hearts. His sentiments toward the holiday were her own. Ever since Sean died the holiday, centered around love, had lost all the charm it never had; only he could make the ridiculous holiday worthwhile, in his uniquely romantic way he would've made the day special for them. "So your case is all wrapped up, they killed each other."

"That's it? No history of arsenic? No philosophic statement on love? Are you alright?"

"We love, we are hurt, we lose. Is that the statement you were looking for, Detective? And I'm fine." He turned away from her and went into his office.

—

She was left alone in the morgue, with the bodies of the doomed husband and wife. Her feeling of loss threatened to overcome her, affected by the unease of the usually steadfast Henry. She now realized how much she depended on his quiet strength and level of outward control.

Collecting herself she returned upstairs, anger building as she ascended. Reaching her desk she sat down hard and looked directly forward for a moment. Around her the precinct was filled with the discussion of gifts, chocolate, relationships, love; the sounds amplifying inside her head. Her gaze dropped to the surface of her desk and met immediately with the picture of Sean; suddenly the tower of growing rage inside her burst, releasing a flood of sorrow in which she found herself swiftly drowned. She hurriedly rushed to the bathroom, sinking to the ground she broke down.

Hanson had seen her come up, and the determined way she approached her desk. Something had happened while she was checking in with Henry. This train of thought was broken as he saw Jo running frantically for the bathroom, hiding her face. He broke away from the conversation he'd been hanging on the fringes of and went to the door. Placing an ear to the door he heard the sound of poorly suppressed sobs; he knocked and when no reply came he opened the door, looking first to make sure there was no one to witness his entrance into the women's bathroom, and entered. Through her sobs he could make out one softly gasped word, "Sean." The whole situation connected for; the holiday, the loneliest for those left behind. He knelt down beside her and touched one of the hands that covered her face. She flinched at his intrusion into her sorrow, her hands moved to reveal her tear and makeup stained face. He put a comforting arm across her shoulders, and she curled into him. "Thank you." She said after calming enough to emit a clear word. Following a time of her sporadic sobs, slowly taking comforting strength from his presence, she regained her senses. No words had been spoken, none were necessary.

"Let's get you cleaned up a little, huh?" He said beginning to rise and bringing her with him. Several dampened paper towels later, her face was clean and she was prepared to return, only not to her desk, and back to something close to her normal self.

"You're never going to live down being in the ladies room." She ridiculed, a weak smile on her face, as they walked out. There was a table out in the hall, it was here that they sat. "God, I hate Valentine's day!"

"Did something happen with Henry?" He asked, still suspicious that this had begun with her visit.

"He's just not himself." She explained, or defended as he decided.

"Well, I'm gonna have a little talk with him. No one upsets you and gets away with it."

"Good luck in getting hold of Death." She said with a heavy tone of dark humor, without the humor, in her voice.

"Why don't you go home." It was not a question or a suggestion it was a caring command. He got up and headed down.

—

After leaving Jo, alone amongst the bodies, Henry sat at his desk, hands over his head holding it down close to the desktop. He knew that he should've tried to wear his usual mask, for sake at least; surely this day was as hard, if not harder, for her than himself. Fresh pain was always the hardest. But his facade had crumbled, the day had caused it. There had been a time, well a few times, when he had enjoyed the gleeful romance of the holiday, but those days had long since gone. During their short lived marriage, he and Nora would spend the day in front of the fireplace, eating a collection of pastries and perhaps going out in the snow only to return to the warmth of the fire, until they fell asleep in each other's embrace. With Abigail the holiday had been filled with small tokens left by each in places where the other would find them in preparation for the time their schedules allowed them together, when Chopin accompanied their laughter from chocolate covered lips.

There seemed to be a mocking symbolism in the pair of bodies now out in the morgue; taunting him with two deaths of his spirit, the wounds of which pained him most on this day. He had had his heart ruptured, not by the bullet which still marked his chest, but by a knife wielded by the disbelief and betrayal of Nora. Then the drawn out death like poison, brought by Abigail whom he knew would be lost to him from the outset; yet as he had helplessly watched her deterioration, he had slowly died with her.

Two forces acting upon his spirit had left him without the power to affix the mask he wore daily. His pain had been left plain to be seen, his heart pinned upon his sleeve.

His heart swelled with agonizing pain and he crumpled in his seat, face in hands on desk, shoulders trembling. Alone and tormented by the joys of the past, which should've brought comfort, he poured out his retained heartbreak into his hands. Eventually he forced down his heartache and built up a weak semblance to his mask, he knew it would easily crumble once again at the slightest provocation. He sat, elbow on desk supporting his head, as he calmed. It was then that he was interrupted by Hanson.

"Doc?"

"What do you want, Detective Hanson?" He asked, voice harsher than he had intended, and reconstructed walls cracking.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Hanson asked, sternly bewildered.

Henry took a deep breath, recomposing himself. "Nothing. I- I'm fine."

"Hey, Hen-" Lucas began, opening the the door slightly, before being interrupted by the slipping ME.

"Lucas, out!" He commanded.

Ignoring, for now, the prior exchange, Hanson continued. "Jo, doesn't think so. She fell apart when she got upstairs."

"I in no way meant to upset her. It's just that I-"

"Go home, Henry." This was an uncompassionate command, he didn't know what was up with Henry and he didn't want to.

"Perhaps you're right. I shall." He felt defeated and battered. And he got his coat and left, forgetting his scarf. Arriving at the shop he slumped onto the sofa.

"Henry, that you?" Abe called, entering. "You look dead." No reply came from the man sinking into the sofa. "Oh," he whispered understanding the cause of Henry's morose mood. Leaving briefly, Abe made some tea and returned, gently forcing a cup into Henry's hand. The man livened slightly at the warmth and intention, he looked up to meet the other's gaze. "You know, I remember going through my first divorce and a very old and wise man told me something." He paused a moment. "He said, 'The end might be agonizing, but it's the good memories that are important and are to be treasured.'"

"Jo, she came down and I'm afraid I wasn't myself."

"Your face paint washed off," Abe guessed, slightly glad that she had seen his walls down, perhaps Henry might find her trustworthy sooner because of it.

"It appears that my mood didn't help with her own handling of the day."

"Maybe there's someone who could benefit from a particular bit of advice from a certain old man."

—

Later in the evening Henry made his way, scarf replaced and once again himself, to Jo's house. The door opened shortly after he knocked. "Henry?" Jo asked from the doorway, baffled by his arrival.

"How are you?"

"I'm ok." She stepped aside, inviting him silently in. They walked further in, she retook her seat on the couch and motion for him to join her. "And you? You seem back to yourself."

"I'm quite alright." He looked at her. "I apologize for earlier, I was not not completely together." He took a breath. "Abigail," he waited for a nod of recognition from Jo, "was my wife, and she died."

"And Valentine's day's not so enjoyable anymore." She filled in the silence, with her unspoken sympathies.

"Indeed. I came to convey a bit of advice I was recent reminded of, 'The end might be agonizing, but it's the good memories that are important and are to be treasured'."

She smiled at either the sentiment or some personal memory. "Thank you."

He looked down at the coffee table and saw a Shakespearean play. "Romeo and Juliet?"

"Yeah, it's an absolutely awful play, but Sean and I would always read through it on Valentine's day."

"The world's most classic and adored love story. Funny that it was written as a satire on the foolishness of marrying for love."

She smiled again, with a small laugh. "There's the Henry we know and love." She picked up the book and held it out to him, would you like read for Romeo?"

"I would be honored." He replied, accepting the book.


End file.
